A Juvenile Predicament
by TuttleTuttlewood
Summary: A random story, in which Sherlock becomes a child. Please leave a review, if u want me to continue? I dont know.


Disclaimer—I would like to give God all the credit for this story, because I wouldn't be able to write without Him. He is my Helper, the One who inspires me, and my Protector. This story may not be Christian, or even well written, but I thank Him for helping me anyways.

John cautiously opened the door to his flat, expecting to hear an explosion, gunfire, or shouting. But it was silent… how odd. Cautiously, he pushed the door open, and inspected the flat—the couch was still there, the window was unbroken, and the coffee table was intact. This was too good to be true. John stepped into the flat, and put his stuff down.  
"Sherlock?' he asked.

"Yeah yeah, I'll be right there," his flat-mate replied, from a closed room.

"What did you do?" John inquired, accusingly. Whenever things were this quiet, it meant something had gone horribly wrong. Or maybe John just forgot how to enjoy a normal day.

"Nothing. I just need to clean up this experiment." Sherlock said, dismissively.

Now John definitely knew something was off—Sherlock _neve_ r cleaned up after himself.  
"That may be the worst lie you've ever told." John growled.

"Good deduction. Now leave me alone, and wait patiently out there like you're supposed to." Sherlock hissed.

John sighed, and sat down in his favorite chair. He moved the pillow out of the way, and picked up a newspaper. Sometimes, when Sherlock was being stubborn, it was best to just leave him be.

After a while, John decided to make himself a cup of tea. Just as he was about to tear open the packet, he heard a crash, and then some screaming.

"You worthless, unavailing slab of adipose wood!" Sherlock shouted.

John just rolled his eyes, and resumed making tea, since Sherlock had said, "leave me alone". He wen't downstairs, with his cup of tea.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson." john greeted. The maternal old lady turned around, and smiled.

"Hello, dear. Is Sherlock being a bother again?" she asked, sympathetically.

"Not quite, I just wanted to see how you were doing." John replied, conversationally.  
"That's very sweet of you—I'm doing fine."

John and Mrs. Hudson ended up playing a lively game of chess, before John headed back upstairs. Somehow, the sweet old lady beat John.

"John, get the crowbar." Sherlock shouted, as soon as John opened the door.

"What?"

"The crowbar—it should be in the cupboard, near the fridge. Hurry." Sherlock explained, quickly.

"Why?"

"Just grab the thing, then I'll tell you." Sherlock replied.

John let out an exasperated growl, before retrieving the crowbar as instructed. Normal people had preserves or cereal in their cupboards. And John had a crowbar. Great. He pulled the tools out, and walked up to Sherlock's locked door.

"Okay, now pry open the door, near the knob, or break down the door. I really don't care, just get me out of here!"

John snickered. "You're stuck in there? Is the door heavily barricaded, or covered by a hazardous substance?"

"Er, no." came Sherlock's clipped reply.

"Then why don't you open it yourself?" John asked.

There was a long pause, before Sherlock grumbled, "Because the door is locked, you dolt."

Maybe Sherlock was hoping that John wouldn't hear it, but he did. John burst out laughing.  
"The door… is locked? That's… why you can't open it?" John gasped, while giggling.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, not sounding the least bit embarrassed.

"No, I'm not going to break down the door for you! I bet this is one of your weird experiments, or something, and you're trying to trick me into being your test subject. Plus, we'll have to pay to get the door fixed, if I destroy it. Just open the door." John mumbled.

Sherlock growled loudly, before adding, "I am deathly serious, John. Please just open the door."

Please. Sherlock hardly ever said please. Maybe he really isn't joking.

"Fine, but I'm not paying for the door." John sighed at last.

After a few hard swings, the door collapsed to the floor, in a broken pile.

"Sherlock?" John called. There was no Sherlock in sight, just a small, curly haired child, sitting on the table.

"I'm right here, John." Sherlock scoffed impatiently.

John stared at the child, who was wearing a white shirt, pajama pants, and a dressing gown. Sherlock's dressing gown.

"What? How—"

"I don't know, John. That's the problem. I. Don't. Know. If I knew what turned me into… _this_ , in the first place, I could reverse it."

"How could you be so reckless?!" John sputtered.

"I wasn't being reckless. I was just doing experiments, as usual, and bam! This happened." Sherlock growled, making some dramatic hand motions.

Anthea heard snickering. Uncontrollable snickering, coming from the ice man.  
"What is going on here?" she asked.

Mycroft just pointed at the screen, still trying to contain his laughter. He was trying oh so hard, to remain composed. Anthea peered at the screen, which seemed to be playing footage from a camera in Sherlock's flat. On screen, a small child was stacking various binders, books, and a small stool, to create some sort of platform. Carefully, he climbed up, and reached for a key on the shelf, before the whole thing collapsed, bringing him down with it. The key remained on the shelf, unreachable to the child. The door was locked, and the child was too short to reach the key to liberate himself from that room.

"You worthless, unavailing slab of adipose wood!" the child yelped, kicking the stool.

Anthea noticed that the child looked a lot like Sherlock.

"Is that…" she asked.

"The world's only consulting detective? Yes." Mycroft replied, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Should we tell Mycroft? I think we should tell Mycroft," John stammered. He and Sherlock were currently discussing what they should do about Sherlock's current… predicament.

"No, we are not telling Mycroft. He will either laugh, or kill me. Or both," Sherlock replied.  
He was perched on the couch, glaring at John.

"But if anyone can fix this, it would be Mycroft," John reasoned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If Mycroft can fix it, he probably caused it… wait." Sherlock hopped off of the couch, and began to pace around the room. He found a piece of candy on the table, and popped it into his mouth.

"It would make sense if Mycroft did this, because on Saturday, I stole some of his documents." Sherlock mused.

well yeah, that was a super short chapter, because this story was originally meant to be a one shot. Please leave a review, if you'd like to see another chapter.


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